Improbable Love
by Pakmai
Summary: You open a book to read, and as you immerse yourself in the world, something odd happens. Sherlock Holmes becomes aware of someone watching him, disapproving of his actions. He's not sure what to make of it, but it intrigues him as well. How will he deal with something so unknown?


**So this is a little idea I have had rolling around in my head for weeks now. It was inspired from something I saw on Pinterest. Don't ask me what it was, I can't find it again. And I did try. :) It's a little unconventional, but I wanted to throw this out to see what you all thought about it. It is a one-shot, for now. I hope that you all enjoy it!**

 **I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything associated with him. He is the property (sadly) of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and my version specifically is property of BBC. I am just playing in this sandbox. :)**

 **Reviews/Comments welcome!**

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"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." - Sherlock Holmes

Sighing softly as he feels the liquid enter his veins, Sherlock slowly slides the needle out and unties the rubber tubing from around his arm, carefully putting everything back in its place before the high sets in and the energy that comes with it, the focus. He is just starting to sit back when he sees something out of the corner of his eye. This had happened before, once or twice while he was high, thinking he saw someone, but this time it's sharper, more distinct. Perhaps distinct isn't the best word, but it's definitely there. Slowly, the detective sits back and relaxes, letting the drugs do their work, closing his eyes before he opens them again, one again glimpsing something out of the corner of his eye. "Now, what could you be.." he mutters before he gets up, the energy starting to course through his body. His laptop is his first destination. He doesn't look directly at what might be there, not knowing if it's a part of the high or reality but he starts doing some research, some of which is a little out there.

The wall over his couch becomes filled with articles, pictures, bit and pieces. And yet it's more than just a flicker of an image now, it's a feeling of disapproval. Sherlock knows, instinctively, that if this is more than just his imagination, whatever it is dislikes the fact that he is using drugs.

The detective is aware of you now, even in a vague sense, watching his every manic movement around the room, watching the way he continues to glance at his drug box, debating another dose and resisting every time.

The hours wear on and the high starts to fade, leaving Sherlock to scratch his arms a little, starting to itch as the drugs work their way out of his system. "Well, it seems that I have what, a spirit, a poltergeist in Baker Street, or is it something more?" He speaks out loud, hoping that you'll hear or give him some sort of sign. Even if you know that there's nothing you can affect in his life, he still feels your presence and speaks to you, giving a sense of connection between you.

"You don't understand. I feel your disapproval, but you don't understand. The drugs help me focus. My mind is busy, all the time busy, like a rocket stuck on the launch pad." Sherlock says in frustration as he paces around the room, shaking his head a little. "Why are you still here?" he demands, since usually his glimpses of you fade after the high fades, but not this time, the window has been opened and now it cannot be shut.

You know you cannot help him though. You are just an observer, and a recent one at that. You don't know his past or his future, you can only see the now. The worst part is that you think about speaking, but you're not sure what you would say or even if he would hear you. So you remain silent and watch the detective.

Sherlock sighs in frustration, bracing his hands on the mantle above the fireplace before leaning over to look down into the fire. "This feeling has never lasted this long before." He says softly, speaking aloud to help him think, to let you into his thought process. Turning toward the wall, he looks at it curiously for a few moments, at all the articles that he found, starting to pull down the ones that – now that he is sobering up – cannot logically be possible. Even if one expands their realm of what is 'possible'.

"This is impossible. And yet it's happening. This means there are one of two possibilities. Either the drugs and boredom have started to crack my sanity or whatever this is is really happening." Sherlock muses to himself, taking a deep breath before he walks over to the small box that holds his drugs, placing his fingertips on it. He can feel the spike of disapproval, and he takes a deep breath. "Is that fear as well? Fear for me, or fear of discovery?" He muses out loud, rubbing his fingertips back and forth over the box, and he considers before picking it up slowly, walking back toward the fireplace.

There's a good possibility that he might shoot up again. That's how addicts do things, isn't it? And you don't really hear about casual Heroin users. How could someone so logical, so intelligent do that to their body?

Instead of taking out another dose, however, Sherlock pauses in front of the fireplace. "Let us perform an experiment." He says before he drops the box into the fire, putting the screen in place so that no bits come out onto the rug or anything. It takes a few moments before the box catches fire, and a few more minutes before there is the crack and shatter of glass.

"Most interesting." Sherlock muses to himself as he stares at the fire, being able to sense your relief and hope. Turning toward the room again, the young man frowns a little in thought as he scans the room. "You can see me, hear me.. But I can neither see nor hear you. I can feel what you feel, sense your thoughts in a way. Why are you here? Do you watch everyone, or is it merely me you have some connection with?"

You cannot respond, and you are afraid to respond. How can you tell this fascinating, strange man that you don't know why you are here any more than he does. Knowing that you just picked this up and suddenly are immersed in this world in a way that you've never felt before. And to the surprise of you both it seems like you might have some influence on it. But if you spoke, would he hear? Would you come across as a voice of God, or would only this man be able to hear you? The thought scares you and you hold your tongue for now, waiting to see what will happen next.

The young brunette frowns a little, walking over to the window. "Fear. I've felt it twice now. What do you fear?" He thinks about this, before he decides to go make himself some tea, putting the kettle on the stove as he thinks. "This is not something you're any more familiar with than I am, is it? This is a first for us both." He observes as he looks around, frowning for a few moments. "I must find something more to focus on." He mumbles, hating looking around the room at nothing, talking to nothing, the only response being a change in emotions.

He is right though, this is not something that either of you have any sort of experience with. But some things are familiar. Going to get tea to help focus yourself or calm yourself, that is something you are familiar with. Everyone has a comfort food or drink that they go to, and apparently for this beautiful man, it's tea.

Sherlock can't see you, even though you can see every scratch on the table, every mote of dust floating through the air. You can sense the heat from the fire, hear the wind whistling across the windows, smell the logs burning in the fireplace. He has none of that, nothing to focus on, and you wrack your mind to try and figure out something that you could do to help him. The laptop on his desk, perhaps he could find something to help. An image of someone perhaps that would be similar to you. It would be tricky to try and get your thoughts or emotions through in regards to choosing someone who looks like you, but it is the only idea you have.

As he starts to pour himself a cup of tea, Sherlock tries to make sense of the confusing thoughts and feelings he sense from you. Finally, he finishes preparing his tea and picks up the mug to turn and head toward his living room. "What?" he asks, not exactly hearing something, but feeling the shift like a change of pressure in the air, looking around slowly before he looks at his laptop.

"Alright.. you want me to do something on my laptop. But what?" he asks as he walks over and sits in front of his laptop, opening up a browser window before he sits back, sighing a little in frustration. "This is tedious." he grumbles, and feeling your own frustration, he holds up his hands defensively. "Forgive me, I can tell this is difficult for you as well."

Watching Sherlock look around the room, you try and direct him to search images, hoping the man is smart enough to figure out what you mean by it. When he finally goes to the images side of the search engine, you nearly shout with relief. A small smile curves his soft lips when he feels this and the brunette chuckles a little. "You wanted me to go here. What do you want me to search for?" He thinks for a moment before he realizes, like a light bulb going off above his head. "Images. You want me to look for pictures. Something to focus on, something that is an approximation of your own image." He says with amusement. "I will need to ask a few questions and you will need to be honest." He says firmly before he hovers his keys over the keyboard.

When the questions begin, it feels almost like an interview or a quiz. The first questions are easy enough. Are you male or female? How old are you? The age question ends up being a 'hot or cold' type of thing where you try and convey approval or disapproval when he makes a guess. You somehow manage to narrow it down to an age range and gender. It's then that Sherlock puts in his first search into the bar.

From there the questions get a little more specific.

"What color is your skin? White? Brown? Tan?"

"What color are your eyes? Blue? Hazel? Green? Brown?" Each time Sherlock is able to refine his search, finally narrowing it down to a handful of pictures, bringing up one at a time until he feels you approve of one the most, and he then sends the picture to his printer, pinning it up in the middle of his wall.

"There you are." Sherlock says thoughtfully as he reaches out to the picture, tracing the outline of your cheek gently in a thoughtful sort of way, trying to imagine what you would look like as a whole.

Picking up the remains of his second cup of tea, the young man down it before he looks around, walking over to put it in the sink, before he scratches his arm a little. "I should try and sleep this off. I can feel myself getting tired. If you are able to, perhaps you should rest as well. I look forward to seeing if this is still around tomorrow." he says as he touches the picture once more. "Goodnight." he says before he turns toward the bedroom.

You watch him walk down the hall, but then something stops you. Like a brick wall or a blank space in your vision. You can see through the door of his bedroom but you cannot enter it. Perhaps you are more tired than you thought, things blurring together. In a way you don't want to go just yet. What if you wake up the next morning and you pick this up again and it's not the same? If it goes back to the mundane would that make you feel better or worse?

It doesn't matter, either you get some sleep or you will probably end up falling asleep in a very uncomfortable way. Reluctantly, you close it and set it aside to go to bed after one last glimpse through the bedroom door to be sure that the young man is indeed getting some sleep. Only then do you allow yourself to succumb to it.


End file.
